


Take A Break

by Chill_with_Penguins



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton needs a hug, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Homecoming fic, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Why Did I Write This?, not the movie that I love, rated for mild language, the event - Freeform, they get shipwrecked on Nevis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 07:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15067772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chill_with_Penguins/pseuds/Chill_with_Penguins
Summary: “Don’t worry,” Eliza says, walking past him with a dangerous glint in her eyes, “I packed for you.”He thinks that might be the most worrying statement he’s ever heard in his life, and that includes the time Burr told him that there was a minor fire in his office.~OR~The one where I had an Idea and it would not goddamn leave me alone and Thomas got his fat ass in the way and this happened. (A year later I fished it out of my Drive and posted it, because you only live once, right?)





	Take A Break

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all!
> 
> So first, thanks for reading, it means the world to me. 
> 
> Just so you know, I wrote this a while back, and my style was a smidgen different, so it might be a little odd. (Or it might be less odd, who am I to judge, right?) 
> 
> Fun fact, I don't actually ship Jamilton. I'm a slut for polyamorous Hamilton, but that just didn't happen here, because I am a weak pushover who lets my characters boss me around.
> 
> Second fun fact: this was actually one of the first stories I ever did research for (but then I proceeded to discount anything I didn't like, so does it really count? I'm thinking probably not.) 
> 
> Many good wishes! If you enjoy, please comment or hit kudos--I'd be happy to check out your work, if I can find a way to your account. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you enjoy!

⧫ Nevis, 1773 ⧫

 

His feet are swinging wildly over the open water that swirls below him, and he can’t help but love the brittle, hollow space inside that fills with adrenaline. He was always moving before, always doing  _ something,  _ but despite the fact that the hurricane came and went weeks ago, he still feels the energy of the storm trapped under his skin, creeping along his bones. The storm dissipated, but he hasn’t slowed down since. 

He swings his feet harder, his bare toes (his shoes were washed away with everything else he’d ever known) skimming the water that is still freckled with debris. His gaze lifts from the eddies of sea foam to the unbroken horizon line, where the ocean seems to go on for eternity. 

A few years ago, he loved the ocean. He had thought it was big and powerful and protected their little island home. He had only known about the gentle waves and the fish at the market, about sunrise reflected onto waves and the warmth of sand between bare toes. He remembers that time, faintly, but it doesn’t seem to fit with what he knows now. 

The ocean is not his friend. He knows better. The ocean brought the ships bearing the fever that snatched his mother away; it slammed unsuspecting boats into the unforgiving sand below; it tore through towns leaving nothing but bodies and rubble. Now, he looks to the thin line that marks where the ocean ends for inspiration, because even though he had never been off the island, he has seen enough--studied enough--to know that somewhere, there is an end to the devastation. 

“Alex!  _ Alex! _ ” someone calls, and he turns. It’s only James, so he swings back to study the horizon. 

It’s not that he doesn’t like James, he does. In fact, James is the closest friend he has--the only one who dared to go near him after his hands were stained in the blood of his cousin, after he survived the fever and his mother didn’t. James has always been there, so he’ll understand why Alex doesn’t want to spend his last minutes on Nevis looking at a broken people he’s about to abandon. 

“You need to get going. The ship is going to leave, with or without you,” the young man says, sweeping dark hair back with sun-darkened fingers. 

“I know. I just… I don’t want to forget, that’s all.”

James snorts. “Of course you do. You just don’t want to  _ admit  _ you want to forget.”

Alex doesn’t respond, and he does his best to pretend it had nothing to do with the truth in that statement. His hands drift down, fiddling with his bag one last time. He has everything he needs--two shirts, the pants he’s wearing, a pen, some paper, and a bit of ink. Hell, he even has James’ pair of shoes (“Don’t tell me you don’t need them because I swear to god if you die halfway across the fucking ocean because of an infected splinter, I will haunt your ass to the end of days!”) and a half-crushed napkin full of fried plantains Mrs. Venezia had given him a few hours ago. 

Somehow, it still doesn’t feel like enough. 

He stands anyway, brushes off calloused hands, faces James. “Tell everyone I said thanks.”

His best friend raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell them yourself?”

A half shrug, a half smile; distant eyes lock on the ship he’s about to board. 

“I forgot. Besides,” the seventeen-year-old says, “I’m never coming back.”

 

⧫ New York City, 1798 ⧫

 

He is getting nervous, the further the carriage goes from their usual spots. Eliza and Washington are grinning suspiciously widely, and if that isn’t enough to disturb him,  _ Angelica and Jefferson are riding up front _ . Having a civil conversation about women’s rights, from what he can make out, but simply the idea of these four people knowing where they are going when he does not is making him anxious. 

When Eliza had called for him that morning as part of a “social gathering”, he’d assumed they were going to catch up on recent events at one of their usual cafes, but he’d grown increasingly perplexed (and concerned) as they not only picked up three other passengers--one of them his political nemesis--but proceeded to drive straight through the city. Within a few minutes, they’d be past the docks and into the countryside, and he is seriously beginning to regret not bringing his paperwork with him. 

He opts instead to look out the window, drumming his fingers or tapping his foot or doing  _ anything  _ to release a bit of the tension coiled around him. 

There’s no point--it spikes a moment later when they turn suddenly, headed straight for the ocean. He tries not to panic, really, but he’d been expecting a few hours at most and  _ dear God  _ he would not survive a day of fishing with Jefferson. 

But evidently, that’s not what they have in mind, because when they start to approach the boat, it’s far too big for a casual day trip. This is nearly the size of the behemoth that brought him to New York--albeit sleeker and nicer looking. 

“Don’t worry,” Eliza says, walking past him with a dangerous glint in her eyes, “I packed for you.”

He thinks that might be the most worrying statement he’s ever heard in his life, and that includes the time Burr told him that there was a minor fire in his office. 

“Would anyone care to tell me what we’re doing, exactly?” he asks, coming off a bit sharper than intended. He softens his tone. “I’m quite confused.”

“Listen, son,” Washington says, and Hamilton nearly bites his tongue off trying not to tell Washington that he’s  _ not _ his son (his father had left, left them with bare, calloused hands and and empty jar of money and  _ Washington would not abandon him _ \--),“We’ve all been working really hard lately, and after some discussion, we agreed it’d be best if we  _ all-- _ including you--took a small vacation, just for a few weeks, so we can return with our heads on straight.”

Hamilton blinks, trying to pick his metaphorical jaw off the ground. What are they thinking? He can’t just  _ drop  _ his work and leave--there’s a nation counting on him! On all of them!

“Is he always this quiet on vacation?” Jefferson asks, amusement thick in his Southern accent, “We should’ve taken him a long time ago.”

“Only if it’d get me away from your sorry ass,” Hamilton shoots back, not about to let that slide. The other man sighs dramatically. “So much for peace and quiet.”

His attention turns back to the others, confusion melding with desperation. Since the Reynolds Affair, since Philip, since the final strings of his and Eliza’s wedding were severed… Work is all that keeps him afloat. If they take him away--out on that dangerous ocean, in a boat just like the one that nearly stole his life years ago--he knows he will drown. “I have work to do! A national bank isn’t going to run itself.”

“Don’t worry; I put Adams in charge,” Washington says, trying to sooth him. 

Forget Eliza,  _ that  _ is the most worrying statement he’s ever heard. 

“Perfect! We’ll just let that bigoted buffoon run the country into the ground while we kick back and get sunburns,” he snaps, alarmed at the thought of the idiot approaching his carefully balanced funds. 

He isn’t sure, but he thinks he sees Jefferson’s mouth twitch into a smile out of the corner of his eye. 

“Alexander,” Angelica says, approaching him like he’s a wild animal, “Please don’t make a fuss. We need this.  _ You  _ need this. It’ll only be a few weeks, a month at most.”

“Where are we even going?” he demands, swallowing back the hysterical laughter that threatens to burst out. 

“The Caribbean,” Jefferson supplies. “I’ve got a few trade deals to check up on and I figured I may as well make it a vacation.”

Hamilton is stunned for the second him into silence. He ignores the panicking part of his brain ( _ why no no can’t go back don’t ever go back what if there’s another storm no _ ) and instead focuses on the lost chance to spend several weeks at work  _ without  _ Jefferson perpetually badgering him. 

“You decided to go on vacation and invited  _ me _ ?”

“No,” the other man says with a faint scowl. “I tried to put in my absence with the President and wound up with several uninvited guests, of whom you are by far the most displeasurable.”

“Oh, wonderful,” he mumbles, scowling at the dirt. “And I don’t suppose any of you will listen to my correct, well-informed arguments about exactly  _ why  _ this is going to destroy the country?”

“Nope,” says Angelica as she loads the bags. 

Hamilton sighs through his nose, trying to quell the decades-old fear he still has when he goes on boats, tries to push away the memory of smoke around him and water below him and the harbor still too far away. He considers running for the carriage, but dismisses the idea when he realizes they’ll just come track him down again. He knows if he makes much more of a fuss, they’ll see it’s more than the idea of a break that makes his stomach churn, and he has worked too hard over the past few years to make himself appear untouchable for them to know about his early days, back on the island. He’ll either lose his job to the Democratic-Republicans questioning his patriotism or get the pity vote. 

He cannot stand either prospect. 

“So we’re really doing this?”

“Yes, we are,” Washington announces, standing firm. Hamilton wilts under the stare of his General. “Get on board, son.”

“Yes, sir,” he says tiredly. He already wants this to be over. 

 

⧫ The Atlantic Ocean, Two Days Later ⧫

 

Eliza has been watching him for the past two days, and she’s almost certain that there is something wrong with Alexander. He is withdrawn, and pale, and quiet, and still, and when in his life has Alexander  _ ever  _ been still? 

Her gaze drifts over to him now, but he isn’t looking at any of them. His eyes are lost, out at the horizon, just like always. She thinks about trying to spark a conversation, but gives up the idea. There’s not much point when he’s like this. 

Eventually, his attention gets diverted to Thomas, who’s struggling with one of the knots to let down the sail. Despite it being  _ his  _ boat, he’s not very good at sailing it, and they’ve had more than one near-disaster in the past few days. 

Alexander stands, tall and tense and full of the same nervous energy as he had years ago, when they first met on a winter night. His sudden movement draws the curious gazes of Washington and Angelica, who are in the midst of a card game on the other side of the boat. It doesn’t matter; he’s too out of focus to notice everyone watching him. 

He jerkily makes his way over to Thomas, who’s watching his dark-eyed scowl warily. “For God’s sake, man,” Alexander snaps, grabbing the rope from him, “It’s not that hard!”

He undoes the knot effortlessly, his fingers moving deftly amongst the tightly woven fibers and making the mainsail snap down in a matter of seconds. Rather than step away, though, he stands by the ropes for a bit longer, as if he’s guarding them from Thomas’s carelessness. 

“I thought you didn’t do boats,” Angelica says, her eyebrows furrowed as she tries to puzzle him out. Eliza thinks about warning her sister that there is no solution to Alexander Hamilton, but stops herself, considering his stormy mood. 

“I said I don’t  _ like  _ boats, not that I couldn’t sail one,” he says, and they all hear the hint of defensiveness underscoring his voice, but no one comments. 

Angelica and Washington go back to playing cards. Thomas lays out in the shade of the boat, preparing to sleep. Alexander stands by the ship’s ropes, ready to adjust course if needed. 

And Eliza just keeps watching, wondering what could have changed.

 

⧫ An Unknown Island, One Week Later ⧫

 

Washington has never been so glad to see land in his life. 

The night before last, they had run into a storm in the sea, and only Hamilton’s quick thinking had saved them from the ocean’s fury. Between the waves that towered over the ship’s mast and the rain that came so thickly that he couldn’t see to the other end of the ship, he had thought they were all doomed--until Hamilton had carefully, calmly steered them through it, turning the boat to face each wave head-on. 

Maybe that’s why, when he walks back to them on the beach a few hours after landing on this mystery island, they all ignore the faint trace of bile still staining his mouth. They owe him their lives--white-knuckled and tense, his sailing skills had saved them all. 

For the first time, Washington feels a little guilty for forcing his Secretary of Treasury along on this ride, but it doesn’t overwhelm the gratitude still coursing through him. The instinctual part of his mind, ruled by adrenaline and the coppery taste of blood, cannot let go of the fact that without Hamilton, they all would be dead. 

“Alexander,” Eliza calls. She’s a few yards away, hunched over and taking inventory on the beach. “Do you happen to have a guess as to where we are?”

“No, the storm probably blew us off course. Why do you ask?”

“We’ve got enough supplies to last a few days, but we’ll need to find a town to restock at.”

Hamilton shrugs helplessly. “Your guess is as good at mine.”

“Of course it is,” Jefferson mutters, “He’s useless as usual. No point in asking him.”

Washington does his best to choke back his anger. The last thing he needs is to cause further division, and he  _ know  _ Jefferson is still just shaken after he almost died, but… he still really wants to punch the man. 

“Coming from the man who owns a boat he can’t even sail,” Hamilton snaps. He stands, storming off down the beach, and Eliza sighs, taking off after him. 

Washington and Jefferson sit for a minute, eyes narrowed against the sun, but they soon feel another gaze on their backs. Angelica is sitting behind them, strucinizing them carefully. She doesn’t speak for what seems to drag on for an eternity, but can’t be more than fifteen minutes. 

He gets the distinct impression that they are the pawns in her game of chess, and shifts uncomfortably in the hot sand. 

“How much do you know about Alexander’s past?” she eventually asks.

Jefferson snorts. “How much does one need to know to understand a man like that?”

Washington goes to defend Hamilton, but stops as he tries to remember anecdotes about his childhood. There must have been  _ something _ , he’s sure, but for the life of him, he can’t think of anything. He thinks about the past few days, about the strange shift in his pseudo-son. He wonders how much Hamilton has left out of his stories. 

“I wouldn’t know; I’ve never been able to get anything out of him,” Angelica says. “All I know is that he’s an immigrant from the Caribbean, and he either doesn’t have family or doesn’t like them.”

Jefferson blinked, surprised. “From the Caribbean? Really?”

“Why, with the number of times you’ve called me a bastard immigrant, I’m shocked you haven’t asked where I immigrated  _ from _ ,” Hamilton says from behind them, making Washington and Jefferson jump. He and Angelica just exchange a knowing look, and Washington gets the eerie feeling he’s watching two jungle cats play with their food. 

“You look and sound Scottish. Forgive me for coming to the logical conclusion,” Jefferson says dryly. 

“Certainly, so long as you’ll do the same for my conclusion given the fact that you look and sound like an arrogant, egocentric prick,” Hamilton retorts. 

“Alexander,” Eliza warns, and he backs off. Her attention returns to the three sprawled out in the sand. “We came to tell you that we found a town, not far from here. We can get our bearings and figure out where to go from here after we have a hot meal.” 

Washington stands, stretching slightly and nodding in agreement. He could use a walk and some food, and they’ll need to find a map anyways. 

Besides, some part of him cajoles, this is the perfect chance to learn a little more about Hamilton. 

He tries to ignore it, but settles for pretending that watching the younger man is purely so that he knows he’s following  the right path. 

 

⧫ An Unknown Island, One Hour and 37 Minutes Later ⧫

 

She knows she shouldn’t, but she pays closer attention to Alexander than usual. She can’t help it--the closer they to town, the more tense he gets, and the more curious Angelica becomes. Every time she drags her gaze away from the tight-lipped immigrant, it drifts back unbidden. 

For her sister’s sake, she tries--has been trying, for the last week and a half--not to love him, but she knows it’s pointless. She is a piece of driftwood, caught in the storm that is Alexander Hamilton, and there is no use in fighting it.

Her innate curiosity doesn’t simplify matters, either. Since they first met, years ago (“Where’s your family from?” “Unimportant, there’s a million things I haven’t done.”), she’s been trying to piece his story together. She slips in odd questions, includes bits of trivia she knows he can’t help but correct. She reverse-engineers his background. She is a master at puzzles, always has been, and he is her longest project. 

In more than two decades, all she’s been able to determine is that he immigrated from an island in the Caribbean, and he doesn’t like to talk about his family. 

It drives her insane. So when her sister had strode in and announced that they simply  _ had  _ to take Alexander away before he forgot his own children’s names, when Jefferson had mentioned an upcoming trip south… Perhaps it was unwise, but she could not stop herself from pulling the ragged group together. 

Now, trailing behind Alexander in a small town with unpaved roads, half a dozen languages flying past her ears, she’s less certain. The last three stores they’ve stopped at, they’ve heard rapid-fire languages, all pointed at them and followed by crude laughter. She wishes she knew what they were saying--she speaks several languages, after all--but it’s a mashing of several different languages, complete with words she doesn’t recognize. She’s beginning to lose hope. 

They’re approaching another storefront--this one looks like a general store, with basic food and supplies and a ratty green tarp out front--when Alexander snaps. Halfway past an alley, full of more crude jokes and ripples of laughter, he turns on his heel as only a military officer can and strides forward, anger blazing in his features. He shouts back at them just as fluently in whatever language they’re speaking, and whatever he says makes them flinch back, pale and wide-eyed and stumbling away. 

He turns back around, still fuming with his fists clenched tight. Jefferson raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you spoke…” he pauses, clearly uncomfortable with his lack of knowledge about this region, “another language.”

“It’s called Creole,” Hamilton snaps. Some flicker of realization dawns in Jefferson’s eyes, and Angelica wonders if he’s having the same sinking feeling as they consider all the political jabs that might’ve hit closer to home than they knew. He slams into the store--a storm in his own right--and she’s half-expecting the building to collapse. 

Which is part of what makes is so startling when instead, she hears a stunned voice, heavy with accent, breathe, “ _ Alex? _ ”

 

⧫ Nevis, 3 Seconds Later ⧫

 

Thomas’ longest days always seem to revolve around Hamilton, so it’s no surprise that the universe has seen fit to toss the two on a boat and crash them on an island that he rival seems to know a little too much about to make him comfortable. It’s never a good thing when Hamilton has the advantage. 

And as he looks between the two men separated by a counter--one his rival, one he doesn’t know with thick, dark hair--he can’t shake the feeling that he’s at a serious disadvantage. 

“Alex Hamilton? Is that you?” the man repeats, stunned. 

Not once in his entire life has Thomas ever heard anyone refer to the irritating Scotsman as  _ Alex _ . Alexander, sure. Hamilton, constantly. Even “hard-headed, anglophilic imbecile” once or twice (or a dozen) times by Madison and Adams. But never  _ Alex _ . 

Even more shockingly, Hamilton seems  _ hesitant _ . Before him: the man who destroyed his every proposal, who wrote most of the Federalist Papers, who was known to forget sleep and food in the midst of passing legislature, stepping forward like a cautious child. 

“James?” he asks, and Thomas can’t shake the feeling that Hamilton has more or less forgotten they exist. He knows he has faded to the background, and at the same moment, it clicks: the tension, the fluency, the familiarity. Somehow, despite all the unlikely circumstances that had to coincide, they had found themselves on whatever tiny corner of hell Hamilton had dragged himself out of. 

He watches the man in front of him, curiosity blossoming in the new light. What traces of life before politics, before the Revolution, still lingered in him, or on the this island?

The two men--Hamilton and James--had already slipped into a steady conversation, but it’s in Creole, and Jefferson is having trouble understanding. He’s perfectly fluent in French and English, of course, but he’s less certain of the hints of Spanish and Dutch that he catches. The words are too unfamiliar and their voices too fast for him to understand. 

Laughter is universal, though, and he hears it plenty often. A couple words here and there catch for him-- _ boat, fire, war, storm,   _ and something that he could swear means  _ little old fish lady _ . He can’t make any sense out of it, though. 

Thomas glances behind him, looking at the equally baffled faces of the Schuyler sisters and President Washington. 

“And your companions?” James asks, switching back to accented English. 

Hamilton introduces them, substituting Thomas’ name for what he’s fairly certain means ‘shithead’, and Thomas gives him a hard glare, which Hamilton simply smirks at. James’ eyebrows raise as Washington is introduced as “General and President of the United States of America”, and after a teasing remark he can’t quite make out, Thomas nearly dies of astonishment when Hamilton  _ ducks his head and blushes _ . 

“Father Luke won’t be pleased,” James warns. 

Hamilton lets out a bark of laughter. “He’s still alive?”

“About to hit 82, and still paddling like he’s 20.”

“He hated us.”

“No,” James corrects, an infectious grin lighting up his face, “He hated  _ you _ .”

“Enough to get me off this damn rock,” Hamilton remarks dryly, and James laughs harder. 

“Speaking of which, gentlemen,” Washington interrupts, clearly uneasy. “Mind telling us  _ which  _ rock this is?”

“Why, Nevis, of course,” James says. “Alex, didn’t you tell them before you dragged them here?”

Hamilton’s smile fades a little. “Actually, I was the one being dragged. And we got blown off course by a tormentita.”

Thomas tries to wash the sound of Hamilton’s practiced, fluent tongue rolling with what sounds like Spanish. The last thing he needs is another aspect of the infuriating man to haunt his dreams.

James’ face turns serious. “Are you okay?” 

“Of course. We just need some more supplies.”

“Ah, well I can help you there. What do you need?”

They go through the list pretty quickly, and before he knows it, Hamilton is paying hastily and shoving them out onto the street before James can insist they take the items for free. Jefferson watches him, and although the smile fades a little as they turn the corner, his fluid movements remain, as if the edge of his anger had been worn away by a few words from an old friend. He can’t remember ever seeing him like this, not once in over a decade of grudging acknowledgement and frenzied arguments. 

Here, with afternoon sun turning his skin deep tan and that smartass mouth finally shut in a crooked smile, he finds himself reluctantly admitting that Hamilton, despite all his infuriating qualities, looks kind of… handsome. 

His scowl deepens. Of course,  _ of course  _ the man would unconsciously find another was to drive Thomas insane. It was only fitting. 

They consider heading back to the ship with their supplies, but decide to spend the night in town, opting for real beds and food over another back-breaking attempt at rest on the deck. 

It doesn’t take them long to find an inn (Nevis is an island built on traders and travelers, after all), and even less time for Hamilton to run into another old acquaintance. This one is an older man, balding and potbellied, but he seems nice enough. Hamilton is a little more subdued with him, but that doesn’t stop the short-sighted twit from announcing to the whole bar that drinks are on him. 

Of course, Thomas really can’t complain too much, because it gives him a chance to scurry around with locals too drunk to realize he came to town with Hamilton, and not drunk enough to keep their mouths shut about the man. (He tells himself it’s only for political blackmail, and that it has  _ absolutely nothing  _ to do with the curiosity itching under his skin.) He gleans bits and pieces, here and there, and is able to more or less assemble them into a picture. 

It’s not a nice image. In fact, it makes his stomach churn to think about, and he’s getting ready to retire to bed when something clicks and he realizes he hasn’t actually  _ seen  _ Hamilton in hours. From there, it’s just a matter of making his way back down stairs (he’s only a little buzzed, so it’s not too hard). He spends fifteen minutes wandering before the silhouette catches his eye, and he has to get five feet away before he can tell who it is, given how dark it’s suddenly become. 

“You know,” he says, “Most men wouldn’t offer to buy drinks then leave before the actual drinking begins.”

Hamilton swigs out of a bottle of amber liquid. “You’ve seen one drunk sailor on Nevis, you’ve seen ‘em all.”

“Oh, good,” Thomas responds, “Then I’ve seen them all many times over.”

“No,” Hamilton says, “You haven’t. I stopped being a Nevian the instant I got on that goddamn boat.”

This, more than anything, makes Thomas realize how drunk Hamilton is. When Hamilton starts talking sensibly, it’s cause for worry--and he’s never heard such a serious statement leave the man’s mouth before. 

“Mind if I join you?” he asks before he can stop himself. “Looks pretty lonely down there.”

“It’s not. Cold, though,” Hamilton says, closing his eyes and shivering. It doesn’t really answer his question, but Thomas climbs down anyway, sitting beside Hamilton in the dry sand under the pier. 

“So why are you out here?” 

Hamilton laughs, and Thomas’s gut twists at the hollow noise. “Because you wanted a vacation.”

“No, I mean… Why  _ here _ ? Why not with one of the lovely Schuyler sisters, or the President, or James?”

“I guess I wanted a vacation too,” Hamilton slurs, slumping back in the sand and wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. 

“From what?” Thomas scoffs. He wonders if maybe he’s a bit more drunk than he’d thought as reckless words carry him away. “From being on a trip with your colleges? It spending time with us really so terrible that you’d rather hunch under a dock by yourself in the dead of night and drink alone?”

Hamilton laughs--an actual, real-to-God  _ laugh _ \--and responds, “Not from you. From me.”

Thomas frowns, trying to process this. “You are drunk, by yourself, covered in sand and hidden in the dark, because you wanted a vacation from yourself.”

No, saying it out loud doesn’t help. It only makes it sound more ridiculous.

“Not by myself,” Hamilton grins sloppily, and Thomas can just barely make out the devilish glint in those eyes. “With you.”

He elects to ignore the sudden heat racing through him, or the way that Hamilton is suddenly far too close for comfort. “Fine. You’re drunk and taking a vacation from yourself  _ with me _ . That doesn’t make any more sense.”

Hamilton’s smile slips away, and Thomas has the weirdest pang of regret, almost as if he wished it’d come back. This is getting ridiculous, and it’s all Hamilton’s fault for being drunk, goddammit, and why isn’t he moving away yet?

“Do you ever…” Hamilton pauses, his eyes unfocused. “Do you ever have thoughts so loud they scream over everything else? My head is full of them. I though a few drinks might make them go away for a while.”

“What are your, erm, loud thoughts?” Thomas asks. He doesn’t mean to, but the question slips out of its own accord. 

“They make me remember. I don’t want to remember, Thomas.”

He’s so thrown by this--by  _ his name  _ in  _ Hamilton’s mouth _ \--that he forgets to breath for a second. It doesn’t matter; Hamilton is too drunk to notice his lingering pause anyway. 

“Maybe…” he begins, “Maybe if you told them to me, they’d leave you alone. Maybe you could get them out that way.”

“You really think so?”

God, he hates himself. He hates this island and this beach and he hates that innocent look in Hamilton’s upturned face, like a child begging for answers, and mostly, he hates himself because this is  _ not okay _ but he can’t take the words back now. Hamilton is already talking, and he’s doing the rapid-fire thing he does, like he has so many words to say that he’s terrified they won’t make it out in time. 

“Pa left when I was maybe… Nine? Ten? I dunno, but he left, that’s the point. I won’t leave, though,” Hamilton rambles, his brain moving too fast for his mouth, “I won’t ever leave. I didn’t leave Philip, I swear, I didn’t.”

His eyes--damn those eyes--are wide, pleading, and Thomas frantically tries to soothe him. “I know, I know, you didn’t leave him. Keep going.”

“After Pa left, Ma and I had to work harder. She said it was just us getting to prove we didn’t need anyone but ourselves, because just the two of us would be enough, but then  _ she  _ left too, and I didn’t know what to do anymore other than work. She was holding me when she left, though. I didn’t wake up until she was cold, because everything was so  _ hot  _ Thomas, and we were both so sick, and the cold woke me up.”

Thomas swallowed back his sickness. He had already pieced together that Hamilton’s mother had died from disease, but from the shivers of the man next to him, it’s pretty easy to figure out that she must’ve died still holding him. Thomas is no stranger to grief, but the idea of waking to a dead mother… 

He doesn’t have time to process this, though. Doesn’t have time to tell Hamilton to  _ stop _ , because his skin is crawling with the knowledge that he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be hearing this. 

“And then I moved in with Peter, but he was always so quiet and tired, and then I walked in and he was hanging from the ceiling…” He pauses, chokes down another gulp of alcohol, as if it will wash away the pain that still radiates off him with every word. 

“I was so lost, Thomas.  _ So lost _ . And no one was going to take in a bastard orphan with a trail of bodies, and… and I just didn’t know what to do. I still don’t know what to do, sometimes.”

Thomas opens his mouth, about to argue that if he doesn’t know what to do then what the hell did he fill those 51 aggravating essays with (because yes, he knows exactly which ones Hamilton wrote; the man’s tendency to go on tangents is a dead give-away), but he doesn’t get the chance. 

“They all said I was cursed. I think I might still be cursed.”

“Hamilton,” Thomas finally interrupts, “what the hell are you even talking about? You’re no more cursed than any other man.”

“I can’t die. Everyone around me dies, but I don’t, and no matter what, I end up alone.” His dark eyes slide back over to Thomas, and he feels a weird urge to shiver under the intense gaze. “First it was Ma, then Peter, then most of the island. I thought I got away when I came to New York, but John died, and Philip is gone, and why the fuck can’t I just be dead already?”

There’s too much information swirling through his brain to make sense of--too many things that are suddenly clicking into place. So he latches on to the only thing that doesn’t make sense: “What do you mean, most of the island?”

Another harsh, brittle burst of laughter. “The hurricane. Don’t you remember the hurricane, Thomas? It started as a storm. We all thought it was just a storm, but it didn’t stop, and I couldn’t hear the screaming over the wind, and then it was over and there wasn’t anything left except the bodies.

“God,” he says, and Thomas realizes with a plummeting stomach that those are  _ tears  _ slipping down his face, “There were so many bodies. The whole island smelled like death for weeks.”

“I’m so, so sorry Hamilton,” Thomas says, and he realizes with some surprise that it’s true. For once, he doesn’t feel any contempt for the man--just understanding and sympathy. 

He isn’t entirely sure if Hamilton even realizes that he spoke, though. The other man’s words are coming slower now, slipping and stumbling out as he gets closer and closer to falling asleep. At some point, they shift into Creole, and Thomas stops being able to follow them at all. 

After a few minutes, a half-asleep Hamilton shifts closer to him, his eyes already drifting closed. 

“What are you doing?” Thomas asks, surprise rooting him where he lays as the other man presses against him. 

“I told you, ‘s cold,” his rival mumbles. His breath stinks of alcohol, but it doesn’t bother Thomas as much as it should. Neither does the fact that they are now pressed together in a most undignified way, if he’s being honest. 

“You were right,” the man continues. Thomas wonders for a horrifying second if he’s going to have to listen to Hamilton continue in his sleep, because wouldn’t that just be fitting, if he didn’t even shut up while he was unconscious? “It’s quiet now.”

He does shut up, after that, and it takes Thomas a full ten minutes to realize that he’s asleep. It only takes him three after that to decide that yes, when he’s asleep, he’s beautiful. 

He stays awake the whole night, listening to the faint crash of the waves and the slow, steady breath of the man next to him. He tries to convince himself this is a fluke. It’s only because he pities the other man (but he doesn’t; Hamilton has proven far too resilient--a bit like a weed desecrating his gardens, really--to earn his pity); or maybe an adrenaline thing (but the fact of the matter is that the adrenaline from the storm is long gone). Eventually he has to admit the truth to himself: he simply doesn’t mind the feel of Hamilton sleeping beside him, of them keeping each other warm. In fact, he might kind of enjoy it. 

He’s thinking about this when the sun rises, and still trying to justify it two hours later when Hamilton awakes, slowly realizing where he is and what had happened. A low groan sounds from him as he sits up, glaring at Thomas. “What the hell happened and why are you near me?”

Well, shit. 

 

⧫New York, 3 Weeks Later ⧫

 

“Thank God,” Eliza screams out as she, Angelica, and Washington run off the boat. “Sweet, sweet land!” 

Hamilton scoffs at them from where he stands next to the lowered sails. “You know, we were  _ just  _ at a harbor for resupply day before last.”

“That was different,” Angelica says, still kneeling in the grass with her eyes shut in bliss. “We knew we’d have to get back on the damn ship. Now, we never have to do that again.”

It’s Jefferson’s turn to snort, and he does so with a roll of his eyes. “Always so over-dramatic.”

“No, no, that was quite miserable,” Washington chimes in, and Hamilton does his best not to feel betrayed at the glance his General gives him. “I never want to be trapped in such small quarters with the two of you again--or at the very least, not until after you sort out whatever it is that’s troubling you.”

“Nothing’s  _ troubling  _ me,” Hamilton says, at the exact same time that Jefferson responds with, “Everything’s fine.” The two men glare at each other, distrust firmly in place. 

“I’m sure,” Washington says dryly as they each refuse to give way. “Well, good luck with that. I’ll see you both in a few weeks.”

“A few weeks?!” Hamilton asks, alarm trickling into his voice. “Sir, what--?”

“Did I not just say I don’t wish to be with either of you until you sort yourselves out? The Cabinet Meetings will be hellish unless you pull yourselves together, and frankly, you’re no good to me unless you do. Good day, gentlemen.”

And with that, he mounts a horse and rides off, leaving Jefferson and Hamilton stunned into silence. Angelica and Eliza leave as well, calling out hurried farewells in their rush to get away, leaving just the two of them standing on the ship, half unloaded. 

“This is  _ your  _ fault,” Hamilton snaps, face red with anger. 

“ _ My  _ fault? How is any of this my fault?!” Jefferson shouted back. 

“It was  _ your  _ ship and  _ your  _ vacation and  _ your  _ stupid, nosey questions. How could it possibly  _ not  _ be your fault?” 

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “Oh, sure, blame me like usual--never mind the fact that  _ I literally did not ask for your presence. _ ”

“I swear, you’re more like a toddler than a politician,” Hamilton snaps back. He’s tired and hungry and his back is aching with a month and a half’s worth of tension, and there’s only one carriage left, and he just wants to get  _ away  _ from this dangerous ocean; from this dangerous man. 

Jefferson has always been annoying, but now… Hamilton still can’t remember much more than a blurred watercolor of what happened, but he knows he said too much. He knows Jefferson could destroy his career with one stroke of a pen. Who the hell would want a bastard orphan from the Caribbean running their country?

He inhales through his nose deeply, cringing at the salt crusting the air, and does his best to push away the part of him that screams with the utter  _ wrongness  _ of Jefferson knowing these things. There’s nothing to be done for it now, so instead he focuses on tying knots as quickly as his deft fingers can manage, rushing to escape the swaying wooden boards beneath him. 

He just wants to get back to work, but of course Jefferson had to screw that up, too. 

They make it all the way through unloading without speaking, and the carriage is halfway to New York when Jefferson finally clears his throat. 

Hamilton pretends not to hear (and pretends he’s not becoming increasingly immature while he’s at it). 

“Look, if either of us wants to have any chance at normality again, we need to sort this out. The President isn’t joking about not letting us into Cabinet Meetings.”

“Hmph.”

“Oh, for the love of God, Hamilton, work with me here!” 

“Now  _ that’s  _ funny.”

He feels his anger dissolving too quickly at the exasperated look on Jefferson’s face, and clings tightly to the dense rage that still lingers. The last thing he needs right now is to go into battle with Jefferson without his usual passion. 

“Hamilton!” Jefferson exclaims, still looking more tired than angry. “Would you please grow up for once?”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Can we at least pretend that everything’s gone back to normal, for the sake of our jobs?”

It’s working; the trace of fire is returning to Jefferson’s sharp voice and Hamilton is returning to his old self. The ghost of a smile flutters across his face. 

“And what is normal, exactly?”

“It’s--you’re--they--” Jefferson lets out an undignified huff and slumps backward, scowling deeply. “You know what normal is.”

“Do I, though?” Hamilton lets Jefferson stew for another moment before completing his thought. “How much is it worth to you for me to remember what normal is?”

Jefferson stares at him, jaw hanging slightly open. “Are you seriously trying to make a deal right now? For  _ this _ ?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Your questions are always stupid,” Jefferson mutters darkly. “Fine, then. What the hell do you want?”

Hamilton lets the amusement drain from his tone, lets the silence settle around them like sand that sinks deep, deep into the ocean. “I want you to guarantee that nothing I said to you on Nevis will become publicly known. Or privately, for that matter.”

Jefferson opens his mouth to speak, but Hamilton cuts him off. “I don’t know what you know, and I don’t want to. All I want is a promise that you won’t tell anyone else.”

Jefferson waits for a moment, a single skeptical eyebrow raised as Hamilton sits back, masterfully hiding the way his anxious heart is beating too hard in his chest. When it’s obvious that Hamilton is done, he takes a breath. And then he speaks. 

“I don’t know who the hell you think I am, but I would not announce your past to the world. Even in politics, there are some things one does not do. You didn’t have to try and force me away from it--I would never have told anyone anyway.”

Now it’s Hamilton who sits in shock, unable to process what he’s hearing. He looks at the man across from him-- _ Thomas Jefferson _ , who he hates with a passion, who he’s fought on every policy that’s ever come up, who has worked against him since the moment the two met in New York so many years ago. 

He thinks Jefferson might be the first person in a long time that he’s respected, and he’s suddenly unsure of what to do with this piece of information. 

“But you could hurt my career,” Hamilton prods. He tries to explain, but he has a feeling that his words aren’t being as precise as they ought to be. “You could destroy me. You could  _ win _ .”

“And none of that is worth losing my sleep at night. One insomniac is plenty for our government to have already,” Jefferson supplies, and then an actual miracle occurs. 

Jefferson  _ smiles _ . At  _ Hamilton _ . 

The world implodes--or at least, it should--because Hamilton might actually kind of think that he doesn’t mind that smile, at least not when it doesn’t come right before another nasty barb, not when it isn’t a code between Jefferson and Madison. 

How does he not hate that smile?

“Oh. Right. Good,” he stammers out, and the half of his mind that isn’t blowing up is screaming  _ nice, very eloquent, great job idiot _ . 

Jefferson is still watching him with that funny little smile, and Hamilton does his best to ignore the tight, tense feeling stretched beneath his skin. His gaze shifts away, toward the darkness skimming by through the window.

It does not matter to him that Jefferson still smells slightly like the last batch of authentic Caribbean food they had just before leaving for New York. It does not matter to him that waking up next to Jefferson had been the first time in years that he hadn’t feared the crash of the ocean waves, too close for comfort. 

It does not matter at all. 

 

⧫Monticello, One Year Later ⧫

 

The dawn breaks slowly, all fire and flower blossoms, but Thomas isn’t watching. His gaze is locked on the man next to him, pressed against his side and breathing steadily in his sleep. His fingers are still woven in Alex’s hair, loosely tangled but not enough to stop the careful, rhythmic motions of his hand sweeping through those long, dark waves. 

It’s only a matter of time before he wakes, but for now, Thomas can appreciate his beauty in peace. 

They’ve only been at Monticello for a few days, but he already knows he’ll miss it when they have to return to D.C., to stealing kisses between bouts of faked public scorn. It’s the first time in what feels like eons that the property doesn’t feel big and empty. He’s missed this--this not-lonely feeling that warms his whole body--much more than he ever realized. 

He leans down, pressing a kiss against Alex’s forehead, just because he can, and when he pulls away, his lover’s dark, dark eyes are slowly opening, the fog of sleep still clouding them. 

“Morning,” he says, smiling. 

“Mornin’,” Alex replies, the end of his response cut off by a yawn. He pushes deeper into Thomas’s warmth, somewhere halfway between awake and asleep. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Isn’t that my line?”

“That’s a no, then. Seriously, you need rest,” he says, elbowing Thomas. It doesn’t hurt--they’re too close for him to get any real leverage--but Thomas uses it to pull him closer anyways, locking him tightly into an embrace. 

“I couldn’t help it. I was kept awake by your startling beauty,” he says, only half joking. 

“Ha ha,” Alex grumbles. “Very funny. Don’t expect me to make you any breakfast.”

Thomas snorts. “As if I’d let you. You’d burn down my kitchen. My nice, expensive, recently-restocked kitchen.”

Alex pushes out of his arms and sits up, turning around to face him. His eyes are embers, sparks drifting off from his sudden energy. “Is that a challenge?”

“No, it is  _ not  _ a challenge. I’m never challenging you to anything every again after the Windmill Incident.”

“I think it’s a challenge!” Alex says, leaping out of bed and crackling with enthusiasm. Thomas collapses back onto the now-empty bed, losing its heat quickly. 

“Just forget it. I’ll make breakfast later, okay? Now get back under the blankets. I’m gonna get cold.”

“Nope!” Alex announces, bouncing around the room. “I’m going to win this challenge!” He finds a scrap piece of ribbon and ties his overly long hair back, and Thomas nearly melts then and there at the sight of the crooked bun. Alex is already racing out the door, bare feet marching on the wooden floors like he’s walking into battle. 

“And,” he calls from out in the hallway, “I’m going to use up all your good wine sauteeing my delicious, challenge-winning food!”

That gets Thomas up. He’s racing after Alex a moment later, nervous energy making his heart pound in time to the bursts of laughter. “Now, just wait a minute--”

“No way! There isn’t a moment to waste. Thomas, be a love and grab some tomatoes from the garden.”

“--you can’t waste such good wine for no reason, you know--”

“Watch me,” Alex retorts, humor glinting on his face, mischief curling into his smile. 

“--if you’d just  _ slow down  _ and listen--” Thomas continues. It’s pointless. He’s already being steered out of his own house and into the gardens, and--yep. There’s the click of the door behind him. 

He sighs, looking forlornly at the flourishing plants. So much for the bottles he’d been saving. 

Maybe he should just forget the mismatched romance and go back to gardening. Plants are nice. Plants don’t use up all his nice, expensive, French wine.

The thought hasn’t even finished crossing his mind before he’s already remembering all the early mornings and late nights and stolen seconds when he and Alex have fallen in love. It’s worth it. So, so worth a few wines to be with such a whirlwind of a man. 

He sits down, carefully studying his squash for any signs of disease, but there’s nothing. He moves on, picking a few tomatoes, and catches the first whiff of smoke through an open window, followed shortly by the muffled sound of curses. 

He smiles, straightening up. Looks like he just won another bet. 


End file.
